Death, Love, and Cowardice
by HarleenQuinn
Summary: As the supposed apocalypse nears, Mr. Burns realizes his one regret. BurnsXSmithers. Oneshot. Based on the episode Lisa the Skeptic.


Please read and review! Both constructive criticism and praise are greatly appreciated! Thank you. :)

"Death, Love, and Cowardice"

_The end is coming. _

_The end is coming. _

That thought at least was consistent throughout every Springfield denizen's mind as we stared in shock and confusion and sheer terror at the towering angel above us, the angel that enounced our impending deaths and ultimately made a mockery of us all. Families held onto one another in rather repulsive exhibitions of synthetic love. The pretentious Christian-types all bent down on their useless knees to pray. Parents tried to explain to their children only now what heaven was, even though they themselves would likely not be going there if it did in fact even exist. And finally, there were couples everywhere—young and old—embracing each other and telling lies of forever.

I couldn't bear to look at these displays of affected affection, and so I turned to look at the man standing next to me. The man who had always stood next to me. In life, and now I supposed, in death. I stared over at him, looking so calm and well-put-together even during a time like this. How I envied him this perpetual composure. He caught me staring at him and met my gaze. I looked away, but felt his stare on me still moments later.

And then it hit me for the first time. In one minute exactly, I would never see him again. I would never talk to him again. I was standing there next to my closest friend for the last time in my life and yet we did look at each other; we did not speak a word. After his glance turned back to the angel of death, I turned mine back to him. I wondered what he was thinking about in his final moments. In all likelihood, he was like all the other helpless townspeople, probably trying to come to terms with his life and his experiences and his regrets.

And then something else hit me. As I tried to imagine what my friend must have been considering as his death grew near, I realized that I really had no clear idea of what that might be. I had spent the last twenty-five years with this man; we had done everything together and had grown exceptionally close. And yet I didn't know how he felt about his life. His experiences without me by his side were largely unknown to me. And I could only suspect that most of his regrets included me and wasting his life with me.

_What are you doing, you idiot? Now you are the one wasting your time with him. These are your last moments on this bloody earth, and what are you thinking about? Him? Well, you shouldn't be. Think about yourself for a change! _

I tried to listen to my conscience. I tried to think about childhood antics, my days at war, and myself during my long adulthood, rich in both monetary wealth and fascinating experience. I decided that this was a life that I was chiefly satisfied with and one that I could die contented knowing that I had lived. However, as I moved on to the customary regrets stage, another epiphany struck me like a bloodthirsty cudgel of lightning: I had only one regret and that was never telling my one true love how I felt.

I looked over to Marge Simpson, her thick pole of sparkling blue hair catching the dampening sunlight in ever a becoming fashion. I then cast my gaze upon her mother, the still beautiful Jacqueline Bouvier, with whom I was quite smitten for a time. However, these were merely passing fancies, desires of my desperate flesh and longing heart. A longing that was misplaced and meaningless when centered on these women that truly only evoked mere lust in my body and no love in my heart.

I looked over to Smithers once again. There had always been a war inside me, every fiber of my being attempting to battle those feelings that had emerged quite a long time ago for my friend. And for the majority of the time, those pugnacious fibers won. My feelings rarely were evident and sometimes I had even forgotten that they had existed.

But of all the times that I had killed and had people killed for me, there was one murder I could never commit and it was the murder of that bizarre and inexplicable longing for my assistant that would always resurrect just after I had thought it had vanished for good. I never dared speak of this one unbeatable foe and seldom tortured myself with true consciousness of it, but it was always there. It always survived somehow, despite my most truculent efforts to destroy it. It always survived and as I now stood with the rest of Springfield, counting down the seconds until we would become ashes, I had a good prediction that it would outlive me as well.

"10…9…8…" I heard people begin to chant. Before I could wrap my mind around my thoughts, I simply froze in a panic as four words paraded through my head: _Just do it, Monty. Just do it, Monty. _

I turned to Smithers with this solitary thought in my mind and was prepared to follow my heart for once in my long lifetime. I whispered, "Oh, what the hell?" as I began to reach out to him, however, at that moment I heard my last words echoed in his voice. And then turned around, placed his soft hands on my face, and kissed me.

It was astounding and fantastic and all too brief and my eyes were still widened in shock for moments on end afterward. I stared at Smithers as he turned away and focused on the angel. I began wondering if I should say something to him, if I should question him…but then I remembered that this was my last moment on Earth. And I decided to merely sink into bliss without question or guilt or confusion. What did it matter now anyway what it meant? I'd rather die with false happiness than with accurate desolation.

However, I didn't die. No one did. The entire scenario was an elaborate and desperate hoax to advertise the new shopping mall, to which every denizen traveled despite their resentment. We were all such an easily-persuaded bunch or perhaps we were all delirious with relief and had no sense left in us. Either way, only minutes after Smithers and I shared our first kiss, we began walking down the hill to the new mall as if nothing had happened. _Is he even going to acknowledge it? Am I going to have to bring it up first? What does this mean? What…? _

As we reached the door, Smithers held it open for me and I wanted to smile but was too afraid to do so in case rejection was what Smithers would be offering me soon. _But he kissed you! And you know very well how he feels about you. _I certainly did have an idea. I thought about all the flirting. All the moments of truth I shoved away in the past from fear. But this near-death experience opened my eyes. I came frighteningly close to dying never having known what it was to truly love someone openly, but I didn't want to die in the future with that same regret stabbing me in the side. So I decided: this time, when Smithers told me he loved me, I was going to say it back.

I just hoped with great gravity that Smithers would tell me he loved me first, because no matter how much I didn't want to live with regrets, I knew that I was too cowardly to ever declare my love first…at least now that I knew I was going to have to live with the aftermath of that delclaration.

"Sir, um, about that kiss…" Smithers began as we walked in. I froze in my steps and affected my usual expression of lassitude, all the while my heart tattooed like a metronome. _I love you too. I love you too. _I practiced the words in my head as they were so foreign and frightening to me. Then Smithers finished his sentence: "…I hope you know that it was merely a sign of my respect."

As my heart and hope were submerged back into the dark, blank abyss of my soul, I kept my composure and immediately erected an impenetrable fortification around my heart once again, attempting to return it quickly to its normal state of few emotions. I suppose I was used to this process now and so it came almost effortlessly. I was used to the entire situation now: Smithers' cowardice and my own. Neither of us would ever conquer it, I predicted, and therefore I merely sighed, my countenance unchanging and my voice somehow steady as I replied, "Um…yes…" and turned away once again from the love neither Smithers nor I were brave enough to simply seize.

Perhaps we didn't die that day. But we certainly did not live either.


End file.
